


The Hardships of a Harried Housekeeper

by EmeraldSage



Series: A Wrinkle in Crinoline [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Cold War, Crossdressing, Espionage, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, Not sure what it is now..., OC Badass Grandma Character, Originally supposed to be Humor, Protective Russia (Hetalia), RusAme, RusAme Big Bang 2018, rusamebigbang2018, this turned into a monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 02:01:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16483946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: Alfred thought this was going to be a routine mission, like the ones he normally pulled off for his intelligence agencies when they couldn’t risk anyone else. He was going to go in, integrate himself with the target’s staff, get the information, and leave. It was an absolutely normal job. Except, of course, for the dress he was going to be wearing the entire time. But that was ok, that was perfectly fine - it wasn’t like anyone was going to know he was a guy, and hey, no one he knew was ever going to see him in a maid’s outfit, so yeah, he was totally fine with this. Enter a bored Ivan on a mission, a perverted, grab-happy target, a sympathetic staff, and it’s far from the month that Alfred was expecting. What did he do to deserve this?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this, but damn this thing exploded over the last few days. Please tell me what you think!!!

            Ivan was bored.

            The party around him thrived with the same sense of conformed elegance that most of his life was now comprised of, thanks to the reopening of trade with the West.  There were beautiful jewels dripping from the chandeliers and accenting the bare necks of numerous guests.  Fine silks and perfectly pressed uniforms dressed the majority of the attendees. It was a fine, glimmering, elegant ball.

            And it was just like every other ball he’d ever attended.

            He thought that with the press for equality – the drive to vanquish class from the agenda of his nation – that perhaps he’d never have to suffer the formalities of another such ball.  But no, it seemed that these balls were amongst the few things a nation as long lived as he couldn’t escape from.

            At least his fellow nations weren’t present – not around to mock him and his social awkwardness behind his back.  They weren’t brave enough, or daring enough, to do it to his face, after all.  And after he’d risen into power as the America’s counterbalance – one of the world’s two reigning superpowers – well… they didn’t dare to say anything at all.

            Even still, if galas before the Great War had been agony, that was nothing compared to the ones that followed.  The rigidly icy formalities, the quiet sneers behind his back, and the ever-running gossip – _how long will he last? How radical – I always told you something was off with him_ – devolved into another realm of torture.  At least before – and he felt like kicking himself for even thinking about it – he’d had company on the sidelines.

            A gleam of blond caught in the dim lamplight, even settled under an old-fashioned lace maid cap, brought to the forefront the very thought he was desperate to push away.

            _America_.

            _Моя_ _дорогая_ _Америка_.

            It was nearly the same blond, he realized, perhaps only shades darker than that of his rival.  But it pushed the memories forwards nonetheless.

            That was his saving grace in the grand galas and balls of the past; the ones his fellow nations threw with habitual frequency and carelessly lavish quality.  America had joined their number young and forcefully – of his own will and drive, much to England’s consternation.  And the nations called him forth to their parties and their events because though he was not of Europe, his potential so negligible at the outset, they wished to show him all that they were.  They showed off to the youngest amongst them what he might wish to be, but could never be, because those of Europe were of a singular nature.  Those of Europe had pride inset deep in their design, and _oh_ , did it _show_ , even with the most well intentioned of nations.  America may have been born of Britain but he was also born of _other_ , and _that_ those of Europe would rarely tolerate.  Though, admittedly, few tried then.

            Though America himself held a unique status amongst the nations of Europe at the time then.  No nation at the time would’ve dared to risk inciting the wrath of the British Empire by either taking advantage of the young New World nation or even ignoring the teenager like the Empire himself often chose to do.  The Empire was such a temperamental being, truly, but nothing provoked his furor more than trespassing on his territory. And violent separation or not, as his only blood child, America was _certainly_ considered _his_ territory.  No matter how much the child protested.

            And even still, he was not one of “them” and though the fear of the Bloody British stayed the tongues of many a nation, it still showed.

            But America – dear, sweet, _young_ America – had been wise despite his own hopes, and had steeled his heart against the frivolous, careless hands of Europe, who would treat his trust so frailly and his heart like it was another dainty bobble they wore. ( _Useless, ultimately, but pleasing to their eye, and oh, so replaceable_ )

            However, dear, strong, caring little America could not seal his heart off all the way.  And somehow, some way not even Ivan could claim to know, a little niche had opened in the wall and he had let Ivan into the most treasured part of his heart.

            He still remembered that first ball – the first America had been invited to attend as a nation himself, not while being touted around as Great Britain’s darling – and _oh_ , what an impression he’d made on Ivan then!

            He’d been nervous – that much everyone had noticed, though Alfred had hidden it well enough.  He remembered watching slim, gloved fingers toy with the cuffs of the worn suit.  And it had been worn, that was quite another thing.  All of Europe knew the debt America had thrown himself into in order to fund his Revolution – and knew well the poverty of the nation himself, having only barely recovered what he could from the house England had left him in Virginia.

            It had only added to the nerves of the newly crowned nation at his first official ball.

            Ivan could not, for the life of him, tell anyone what it was that had captivated him, because he didn’t know it himself.  He’d seen the gold radiance of the sun crowning his head, rich earthy tones prominent in his skin, and the wonder and wariness profound in equal measure in his sky-bright eyes.  The confidence, the nervousness, the _drive_ that shone like twin fires in those eyes…and Ivan was lost before he’d ever realized what had happened.

            Russia had only felt the stirrings of curiosity then, and the knowledge that there was something  _more_ to this young, newly crowned nation, and so he’d approached.

            He had earned the sharp-eyed and watchful gaze of the Empire and his brothers – all in rare attendance together for what was only casually known as Alfred’s debut as a nation – when he’d swept up to America’s side.  That gaze had never truly left, either.  All through the centuries of their time together, the Kirkland Clan never let their gaze waver from him.  It was as if they’d realized, there and then, how important Russia would come to be for America…or rather, how much Ivan would mean to Alfred.

            But, nonetheless, Russia had done his due diligence as he escorted America around the gala.  He’d kept the young nation away from the Empire’s pointedly chilly dismissal, out of France’s sly regard and the sharp eyes of Spain.  He was kept away, save for brief meetings, from Portugal, the Ottoman Empire, and the Nordics, who’d shown up en-masse.  Prussia, for once, had been his ally.  The albino nation had shuffled nations around as best he could so America needn’t be in their company long.  But all of Europe wanted to glimpse the little colony who’d taken down an Empire, particularly one they’d all had an axe to grind with.

            Their interest was fleeting, of course – more invested in irritating the Empire, whose casual disregard for his wayward child fooled only said child and no one else – and so it was perhaps fortunate that America had arrived as disillusioned as he was.  Sharp-eyed, sweet-tongued, and ever so honey soft, with a core of something unbreakable that kept him steady through the posturing, the derisiveness, and the callous speculation that ran rampant the moment he turned his back.

            He had been such a wonderful change from the old nations of Europe.  Russia had been enchanted.  And, though it had been unknown to him at the time, America had been equally entranced by him.

            Ivan sighed.  He only wished that it could’ve lasted for longer.

            A particularly raucous burst of drunken laughter came from a group standing nearby him, bringing him out of his reverie. He watched with distaste as they leered at a golden-haired young woman on the serving staff, and turned away, something roiling unpleasantly in his gut.

            He only wished the party wasn’t so damned noisy.

* * *

           The noise of the ball was the perfect distraction. Sure, there was always extra security around – because this many guests and _that much_  alcohol?  Even if there weren’t overt issues such as people making a scene, drunk on too much vodka, with this many people, you were almost guaranteed to have spies in your midst. Extra security was absolutely vital – for this party oligarch in particular – to keep safe and in good standing and _not_ under the attention of the Kremlin, much less other international intelligence agencies.

            Which, he thought with a smirk, he already was. Years of observation and operation within the covert field had honed his already keen observational skill into something instinctual.  He could already make out an MI6 agent chatting up a giggling young woman, a French pair monopolizing the foreign secretary, and the numberless KGB agents monitoring the evening’s events as well.

            And then, of course, there was him.

            He tugged the maid cap just a little more forward on his head to cover the frustratingly stubborn little cowlick on his head before he re-entered the ballroom with a tray of champagne glasses balanced on his fingertips.  His skirts swished around him daintily and he could feel the eyes on him before he was dismissed and they moved away.  After all, he was a member of the serving staff – had been for the last month.  Why on earth would the security be concerned with a dutiful maid who was doing “her” job and had never shown any signs of being a spy?

            Except for the fact that “she” was actually “he,” and he was, in all actuality, a spy?

            He hid the smirk that tugged at his lips and smoothed it into a politely neutral look.  Smiling at people you didn’t know was overly familiar outside the US, and in a polite society – especially one like Russia’s that revolved so heavily around respect – it would give him away in an instant as foreign.

            The CIA agent who was playing bait for him tonight at the party had already “slipped” and made that mistake, smiling out of habit as some rookie agents defaulted to, before being “corrected” by his handler in the earpiece.  The earpiece and its corresponding comm frequency that had, of course, already been quietly hacked into by the KGB operatives on duty.  He’d likely been made and marked as a rookie by at least half the KGB at the part, especially since he’d been trying to operate discretely on the Russian airwaves.

            And, of course, that was the whole point.

            Alfred smoothed down the line of his apron at a glance of the Head Housekeeper, switching his nearly full tray of champagne with an approaching maid’s empty one.  He was the one who’d vanished into the kitchen to retrieve another tray and brave the balancing act up the stairs.  It gave him an alibi – and more importantly, it gave him time to act.

            The KGB was smart – the most sophisticated and successful intelligence agency in the world – much to the CIA’s dismay.  They would know something was off if they saw British and French intelligence – amongst a variety of others Alfred _knew_ were there but couldn’t identify right off the bat – at a very important ball but _not_ the CIA.  It would make them suspicious, make them paranoid.  And they were smart, had been outsmarting his intelligence agencies for decades even before he’d _had_ a peace-time intelligence agency.  If they suspected something was off then it didn’t matter if Alfred had an alibi or if he managed to pass off the documents and the information back to his handlers.  Anything found missing would be changed, the wait staff and housekeeping staff would be heavily scrutinized.  Any potential weakness would be looked into, just to be sure that the CIA hadn’t gotten away with something invaluable.

            And given that the oligarch throwing the party was a bit of a loudmouth when he got well into his cups in “safe company” (which, really? What part of the KGB was _safe_?), they were right to be concerned at the possibility.

            Tonight’s party was a gold mine of information for even the greenest spy.  Information circulated around the party like the endless flutes of champagne and the limitless bottles of vodka, gossip as potent as it ever was.  Every intelligence agency that had an international presence had, at the very least a connection with someone here tonight. They might not have the privilege of an agent on the floor – that only a few of the larger world powers had pulled off – but all the nations had an eye on tonight’s party.  Which made it ever more crucial that Alfred remained undetected and got the information he’d been after for the last month.

            So, his fellow agent would play bait – slip just enough to be considered an accident and not deliberate – and he would be made by the KGB, like the French pair already had been.  He would only hear the information the KGB wanted him to hear and carry back with him – unharmed – to America.

            He would play bait so Alfred could snag the bigger prize.

* * *

           The signal came a lot sooner than Alfred had anticipated. The CIA agent in “disguise,” who was being monitored by _at least_ three of the KGB agents that Alfred could _see_ , wandered over.  He’d been wandering around for a while now, occasionally taking another glass of champagne – each from a different maid – so this would be nothing new to them. The only difference now?  He’d come to take one from _Alfred_.

            He’d been described to the agent as the pretty blonde maid with blue eyes and a _specific_ sapphire and silver pendant on her choker, way before they’d gotten to Russia and would be overheard.  They hadn’t wanted any details of Alfred’s assumed identity to be compromised.

            So, when the agent snatched a flute from the tray with a split-second glance down at his neck and a flirty smile to cover it up, Alfred knew it was time to act.

            He passed over through the ballroom, taking care to pause appropriately when people passed by him, and ridding himself of the remaining champagne by passing through a group of particularly drunk-but-not-looking-like-it guests, who greedily snatched at the fine alcohol and left him with an empty tray.  He waited a heartbeat longer to scan the room, before heading towards the staff staircase in the back to get to the kitchen.

            He paused by the Head Housekeeper, calling out tiredly that he was going on his break.  She nodded approvingly – the party had been going on for hours now and he hadn’t yet taken a single break, unwilling to chance her saying no at the critical moment – and waved him off.  He climbed the staff staircase wearily looking for all the watching world like a young woman who desperately needed to get off of her feet.  A few of the younger maid staff coming off their own break smiled at him as they walked down and he smiled back – he’d become friendly with most of the staff, especially when he helped the younger ones fend off their lecherous employer and his unbearable guard staff. Assholes, the lot of them.

            The moment he was sure there was no one around, his whole bearing shifted.  He wasn’t Katya, or Katerina, or even Katen’ka – as the older women would occasionally call him affectionately.  He was, once more, the CIA operative Alfred F. Jones.  The dress changed nothing.

            And he had a job to do.

* * *

           The signal from the two KGB agents posing as drunken guests came almost like clockwork.  The two main floor bathrooms that had been made available for guests – not counting the ones already occupied by _actual_ sick guests – were now occupied, giving Ivan the perfect excuse to press past the watchful housekeeper and onto the staff staircase heading for the second floor.

            She wouldn’t have denied him anyways, she was one of his people.  They often felt compelled to help him with whatever was needed.  But even so, he’d rather not leave it to chance in the event that she’d say no.

            Regardless, the plan had worked, and he’d made it to the second floor.  Now, to find the study…

* * *

           Alfred’s grin could’ve lit up the entire study all on its lonesome.  He’d hit the freaking jackpot on this one.  He’d known, of course, exactly where the oligarch had hidden his cache of secret documents.  He’d even known the codes, because the bastard didn’t consider any of his house staff capable of memorizing a simple complex code.  And okay, maybe if he’d been a normal person and not a spy or a centuries old nation with espionage training, he would’ve had some trouble with it.

            But he wasn’t normal.  He’d had no trouble at all locating the safe.  He’d been stuck cleaning the study for the last week – which had technically been a punishment duty given that their employer had a tendency to let his hands wander when he was around beautiful “women” with no other men around to shield them from him.  But perverted oligarchs he couldn’t knee in the balls – yet – aside, it had been a huge help.  He had a very limited timeline to get the documents, wipe for prints, and get back to the party before the housekeeper sent someone up in search for him.

            He let the gloves snap on just a bit tighter – no chance of leaving any prints, not that they’d be able to ID them even if he did – and then got to work.

* * *

           Ivan huffed in frustration, brows crinkling in annoyance. He’d had the most recent blueprints of the house according to the KGB, but apparently, they weren’t accurate _at all_.  He’d walked into the staff’s break room – empty, thankfully – a guest room, an actual bathroom, and an unfortunate young man passed out in a corner with alcohol staining his suit.  Thankfully, there was a door at the end of the hall that he was positive was the study.  Tugging his gloves on tighter, he reached for the door knob.

* * *

           Alfred huffed, letting the door of the safe seal shut without a sound.  He eyed the study door briefly.  He could’ve sworn he’d heard footsteps in the hall, but they’d vanished fairly quickly. Alfred really hadn’t had the time to pay it much attention with his time limit ticking away with every second that passed.  But even now, task accomplished, there was no sound coming from the hallway.  Perhaps it had been a drunken party goer who’d wandered too far in search of a bathroom.  Nonetheless, he was on his guard.

            He really couldn’t risk letting this information go.

            He straightened with a huff, the papers he needed clenched in a gloved hand.  He smoothed them out and slid the re-sealable cloth cover over the slim stack, letting it cover the crinkle of paper and keep the edges from being itchy.  And without further ado, he sucked in his stomach and slid the cloth covered file down to the base of his blouse.

            He smoothed the material down once he could feel the file at the base of his blouse, just hovering around the waist line.  He smirked as he felt everything straighten out, seeming like not a thing was out of place.  Certainly, if they did a quick pat down – if the papers were discovered missing early enough to check him before he escaped – they would find nothing out of order.

            For all the last month had been such a headache, at least it was finally running smoothly.  He swung the tray up from where he’d set it down earlier and paused at the door, listening for any wayward sounds before he twisted the knob and stepped through the doorway.

            Only to run – quite literally – into his next problem.

* * *

           Even with having the door swing open in front of him – and having to duck away briefly to avoid being hit by said door – hadn’t prepared him for being nearly run down by the person who’d apparently beat him to the study – if that was their purpose, that is.

            The first thing he noticed was the hair.  It was the same blond he’d seen earlier in the evening.  The next thing was the maid outfit.

            But then blue eyes darted up, looking out from a far too familiar face, and his observations were swept away in a wave of realization.  Of knowing _exactly_ whom he was staring at.

* * *

Oh _shit_.

* * *

           They kind of just stared, gazing at each other in complete and utter shock, and not realizing exactly what had just happened. Alfred’s mind had stonewalled, beyond its initial heartfelt thought.

            And, unfortunately for him, it was Ivan who recovered first.  The wicked smirk that pulled on his lips was heart wrenchingly familiar in a hundred different ways.  “Ah,” he said, a thoughtful pause after their moment of shock, “and _just_ when I was thinking this party was getting dull. You never cease to amaze with you sense of timing, darling.”

            There was a pause, and just as Alfred opened his mouth to retort, he realized Ivan was looking at him.  Or, more specifically, he was looking at the dress he was in, an interested light gleaming in violet eyes as the smirk simply grew wider.

            He absolutely, 100 percent refused to blush.

            “No,” Ivan murmured, wicked smirk not losing an ounce of its edge, “not dull at all.”

            “How _ever_ could we consider one of these parties dull?” he scoffed in a sarcastic retort, a sly smile curling on his lips to hide the sudden onset of panic that snaked through him.  Ivan was blocking the door, after all.  And there was only one other exit from the room.  “But I’ve gotta say, I’m curious, red.  You’ve always hated the balls.”  A smirk tugged at one corner of his lips, “So what’s got you here?”

            A single pale brow raised, “Could I not simply be attending the ball?  It is my country, after all,” he replied, stalking forwards and forcing Alfred to backpedal quickly lest Ivan pin him to the door.  There’d certainly be very little opportunity to get out after that.

            “Hmm,” he hummed, “that’s true enough.  But something tells me that’s not why you’re here today, _red_.”  His tone turns teasing, coy and enticing as he leans back and braces his hands on his hips.  He bit back a smirk as Ivan’s lips curled at the sight.

            “Perhaps not,” Ivan agreed, “but _your_ presence here is far more circumspect than mine, _darling_.”  The word _darling_ was accented with another heavy, stalking step forwards, and Alfred inwardly cursed as the door swung shut behind his lover’s imposing figure.

            He laughs instead, tossing his head in an arrogant gesture that riles up anyone who sees him use it, “Isn’t it always?” he retorts, weaving around the coffee table right behind him as Ivan advanced again. “Much as you suspected, I’m certainly not crashing this _party_ for the fun of it…nor the lamentable _company_ , I’m afraid.”

            There’s a grimace that curls his lips at the end of that exchange, and he absolutely can’t help it.  It’s hard enough hiding his sentiments about the lecherous bastard when he’s amongst house staff who can’t do anything about the problem.  Around Ivan, who can read him like no one else has ever been able to?  No, Ivan sees it, but he dismisses it as a dig against himself, and Alfred is glad of it.

            The last thing he wants is Ivan to go digging about what Alfred had been doing here – even though he had a feeling it would come out eventually.  The protective, possessive bastard would never let it slide if he ever found out. Good thing, then, that Alfred had no intention of ever telling him.

            Ivan eyes him carefully for a moment, but Alfred can _see_ him dismissing the momentary suspicion that something was wrong and it’s more relieving that anyone will ever know.

            “I suppose it would be too _generous_ of you to tell me what it was you were doing here,” Ivan mused, and Alfred flashes him a Hollywood smile, bared teeth and all.

            “Perhaps a tad,” he allowed, a coy edge to the almost _demure_ smile he leveled at the other man.  Ivan’s smirk deepened and his eyes darkened at the sight, but it was worth it entirely for the way Alfred was able to redirect himself towards the wall with the _window_.

            Ivan wasn’t easily distracted, but Alfred certainly knew how to distract him.  Flirting was certainly one way, but as unprepared as either of them had been to see each other, Ivan had recovered far quicker.  Although, tonight seemed oddly different.  Ivan was here, in the study, and very clearly without the oligarch’s permission.  That meant the KGB had planned something tonight, an information extraction perhaps? And Ivan clearly hadn’t expected him here, which means there was enough agents to extract the information, keep an eye on the party, and monitor all the foreign agents present, but no likely ambush.  Which meant that both of his exit routes were still possibly workable.  The door was blocked - Ivan was too close to even consider it - but the window...he could work with that, yes.

            All Alfred had to do was keep Ivan distracted enough to get to the window.  He was fast enough to get out after that.

            Damn if Ivan’s smirk wasn’t foreboding enough, though.

* * *

           Ivan knew the moment that Alfred started backing up, that the younger nation was going to escape.  Alfred had been very careful to position himself towards the only possible escape in the room the moment Ivan had made it clear he wasn’t about to let the blond past him.

            He knew, but damn it if he didn’t keep playing into it.

            How long had it been since he’d seen his lover? In a non-official sense, at least. Officially, they saw each other every month.  Sometimes, with even less time between their meetings when their governments were being particularly twitchy.  But whenever they saw each other, they were Russia and America.  Even at nights, they were watched.  They were tested and weighted, and god help them the coming morning if their bosses found anything about them wanting.  They knew better than to let any part of their demeanor - their act - falter lest it reveal what happened when they let the eyes slip away and the curtain fell.

            It only took one night of suspicion.  One instance caught.  And everything they had could crumble.

            Ivan refused to let it get that far.  Not after nearly a century of waiting to be right where he was.

            He would take the late-night phone calls, carefully coded and monitored for the listeners they knew they had on either side. He would take the random postcards that made their way into his mailbox.  He would take the key slipped into his pocketbook, would take the promises of blue skies, secret shores, and a night where no one could see them but the stars. He would take those once-in-a-blue-moon encounters, those that came with the feeling of silk on his skin, tempting smiles, sly facades and a familiar gleam in the eyes of his only equal.

            _Come. Touch and taste and dance, while the curtain’s down and no one is up._

            He would take them, and take them gladly.  But every time he saw that familiar face...saw those eyes and the forced ( _fake-fake-fake how could they not know that the America they saw was **fake**!_ ) smiles that the act demanded of his lover...the harder it became to stay away.

            And tonight, when the moon was high, the party below was roiling, and there were no eyes on him to stop him...he could indulge himself.

            Even if that meant letting his lover get away.

            It’s not like Alfred was taking anything particularly important, after all.  They’d done an inventory on what this particular oligarch had.  All of it expendable.

            Ivan just needed his schedule.  And with a little luck, he was sure he could just weasel it out of his lover instead of just plucking it out of the safe.

            A smirk curled at the edge of his lips.  And no one said he couldn’t have fun with it.

            “Are you in a rush, little capitalist?” he purred, eyes sharpening when he noticed how Alfred had reached behind him, trying to cover the movement with a swish of his skirt.  “I’m sure you won’t be missed...why don’t we just take our time? You’ve yet to tell me what it was you’re doing here, after all.”

            “Well, I’m sure _you’ve_ got plenty of time to wallow, but some of us have work to do,” Alfred retorted, side-stepping the couch behind him, “The Housekeeper was expecting me back five minutes ago, after all.  Have to keep to the schedules, you know,” Another step, two, and Ivan followed him step for step.

            “Speaking of _schedules_ ,” Ivan hummed, eyes darkening as he glanced back and realized he could finally pin the slippery American against the wall – even if it would only hold briefly.  “I’ll be needing his.  I’m sure you know the one I’m speaking of, _darling_. You’ve taken it, after all.”

            Alfred stiffened for just long enough, and Ivan lunged.  Snatching at one wrist, he pressed his lover fully against the wall with the other wrist trapped behind his back.  Alfred swore, leg lashing out trying to trip him, but Ivan slipped around it and wedged himself between the younger’s legs.  Ivan shushed him cheerily when he growled, paying no mind to the glare of death coming his way.  Alfred knew as well as Ivan did that the only reason they hadn’t been found or checked on was because the KGB knew Ivan had come up this way for a purpose.  Alfred hadn’t been factored into any of their equations, and if they made too much noise, there was a chance someone would come and check.

            And even though Alfred technically worked in the household staff, there was no question of who was going to be considered the guilty party of the two of them.

            “Where is it, then?” the Russian murmured softly, right against the other’s lips.  He smirked when Alfred swallowed, pressing against him more firmly and splaying him against the wall.  With his free hand, he traced patterns on Alfred’s thighs, minding the garter as he watched his lover’s face flush.  “Not here, then,” he clucked disapprovingly, shaking his head, before he pulled his hand away.  Alfred didn’t even get a chance to sigh in relief before Ivan’s hand had reached up, cupping his face, and tilting it up as the teenage nation glared at him.  He pressed down against his neck, tracing a path downwards as he hummed cheerily.  “Here, perhaps?”

            There was definitely something odd about the rumpled cloth around the middle of Alfred’s uniform.  It all rustled like cloth when Ivan pressed and tugged at it, but Ivan wouldn’t expect it to sound like paper – no, not when Alfred was running a job. The American spy was far more professional than that.  Definitely something there, then.  Ivan was positive.

            Positive enough that he almost wasn’t surprised when Alfred had finally managed to free the hand locked behind his back and ripped Ivan away from him.  Ivan crashed back against the divan, swearing vehemently as it caught him against his stomach.  He rebounded quickly enough though.  But not quickly enough to catch Alfred, who’d unhooked the window’s lock and shoved it open before throwing himself through it with the grace of a dancer.

            He lunged for the window within seconds of righting himself, and as he suspected, there was no sign of his lover.

            He sighed, running a hand over his face, before yanking the window closed and locking it tight.  At the very least, if Alfred hadn’t managed to get down, he wouldn’t be able to get back in through the study.  He stalked over to where he knew the safe would be and unlocked it without much fanfare - their domestic intelligence was some of the best, and the mistreated house staff were always willing to slip a little if it paid them enough.  He rifled through the remaining documents, finding a secondary copy of the man’s schedule - a preliminary glance through it noted enough spaces open to organize an _accident_ for all the man’s indiscretions - but just as he was about to put it back, he paused.

            The folder at the back of the stack of papers was a familiar one; it had all the latest intelligence on their missile storage sites and the new shielding program in development.

            And some of the pages were _missing_.

            His face froze and he nearly swore.  Alfred had made off with the oligarch’s schedule _and_ part of the latest military report.

            Damn it all.  Now he actually _had_ to chase him.

* * *

           His blood was racing as the sounds from inside the hallway became ever clearer.  He steeled himself – forcing his hands to stop shaking as he painstakingly unscrewed the already loose latch and popping the window open.  With the sudden rush of adrenaline easing and spiking in a woozy swirl of motion, it was nearly impossible to do anything but flop through the now-open window. He nearly crashed against the vase – porcelain and shining, he would know since he’d wiped it down just early this morning _wait don’t let it fall!!!_ – and his arm lashed out to let him wrap tightly around it until he was hugging it.  He slumped against the well-built counter, letting his relief swell as his eyes slid shut.

            He’d made it.  There was no crash.  He would be fine.  Ivan had gone down the hall, Alfred had heard him pound down the stairs in the process. Unless he came back up, no one would find him at this moment.

            He was safe.

            A throat cleared politely, just off to the side of him.

            “ _Fucking shit_ ,” he swore in Yupik, eyes snapping open and darting to the cause of his sudden tension.  A bemused and familiar face watched him with confusion and no small amount of rising amusement.

            There was silence for a moment.  The two of them must’ve made a spectacular sight.  The unfortunate maid who’d been in the restroom when he’d made his unorthodox entrance was standing by the sink counter he was leaning against.  Her long, curly hair was down and she’d obviously been carding through it with her ungloved hands before she re-tied it up into its mandated bun.  The towel she was using to wipe off her face was still damp and set off to the side.  She was looking at him, increasing amusement mixing with the confusion.  Justifiably so, he supposed.  Given that he was laying splayed half against the sink counter and half on the window’s wall, clutching the porcelain vase like a lifeline. Hair askew, headband snapped, dress and apron dirtied with brick dust from his little wall crawl around the side of the building, it was no wonder she was looking at him like he’d been dropped from the sky.  Any observer might’ve sworn they’d been drinking just a little too much and wandered off, nary a thought dedicated to the matter further.

            Unfortunately, she knew him a little too well for that.

            “Nastya,” he began, trailing off, mind blanking, “this…isn’t what - …” he was cut off with a soft chuckle.

            Nastya’s eyes had crinkled at the edges, warming gently as she raised a hand to conceal the smile that curling at the corners of her lips, “Not what it looks like, Katenka?”

            He gaped for a second, jaw working soundlessly, but before he could say something, the elder woman raised a hand and gave him a particularly piercing, but understanding look.  “No, no, there’s no need to say anything.  I didn’t see you, and you didn’t see me.  I left the bathroom before you fell through the window…doing whatever you were doing that I don’t know anything about.  Just, talk to _Babushka_ , dear.”

            And with a parting, knowing look, Nastya snatched up her gloves and slipped out of the bathroom door, long hair swooshing behind her.

            Alfred stared at the closed door.  And stared some more when he heard her snapping indignantly at someone just outside the door about _how dare he ask what she was doing in the bathroom –what did he ‘think’ she would do in a bathroom, the indignity! – She worked here, what was **he** doing on the residential floors, hmm?_ Their footsteps echoed as they got further away and Alfred still stared at the door.

            There was no way she could possibly know…right?

            He sneezed.

* * *

           He pressed himself against the stairwell wall as he crept back down the stairs.  He hadn’t encountered more than a handful of KGB agents patrolling the premises, and it had been rapidly obvious that Ivan hadn’t told them about his presence here. Whether that was because he wanted to lull Alfred into a false sense of security, or if he just wanted to catch him all on his own, Alfred was grateful.  He’d have already been caught by now, skills be damned, if the KGB had known who they were looking for.

            Thankfully, he’d managed to make it all the way down to the kitchen without anyone noticing.  He slunk quietly to the corner of the kitchen where a cheerful old woman was lining pastry dough with glazed fruit filling.

            Of course, this wasn’t any ordinary old woman. Known only as Babushka – Grandmother, in Russian – to the entire house, save for her son who worked in the kitchen with her, the old woman had been the head and heart of the housing staff for decades.  The Head Housekeeper may have the nominative position, but the kindly old woman held everyone’s respect and obedience.  Every new staff member was introduced to the woman, baked pierogis with her and listened to her tell stories around the hearth like they were children sitting around their grandmother’s fireplace.  She wasn’t just loved, she was adored.  She also never hesitated to comfort or console the young women who had trouble adjusting to the job, and the risks that came with it.

            She also knew _everything_ that happened in the house.  Which made her the perfect person to talk to about this particular issue.

            “Katen’ka?” the matronly old woman’s voice echoed, and he blinked, looking up.  She’d seen him hovering, apparently, and gestured for him to come closer.  “Are you well, Katen’ka?  You look pale.  You’re shivering, dear.”

            “There is a KGB agent, Babushka,” he blurted to her, eyes widening when he realized what he’d said so frantically.  But, he supposed, it was out now.  Might as well finish it up.  He absently noticed how the older woman froze nowhere but in her eyes at that startling proclamation, “I saw his gun, and heard him upstairs while I was on my break.  I don’t know if he saw me.  I thought I should come speak with you.  I don’t know what to do.”

            The genuine worry seeped into his quiet panic and he forced himself to breathe.  _Calm_ , he told himself.  The old woman’s countenance seemed to harden, though her eyes were soft when they looked to him.  She clasped his – shaking, damn it she was right, why was he shaking – hands in her flour-coated warm ones.  Her grip was strong and firm – powerful from decades of intensive housework – calloused and reassuring.

            “Why don’t I take you home, Katya?  You’re clearly not feeling well, and I’m sure the party upstairs has abated enough by now to not need all hands.”  He almost blinked at the mothering tone but had to bite back his shock when she looked at him knowingly.  “Yes, go sit by Vasily while I make your excuses to the Housekeeper.  I will meet you both at the gate in a few minutes.”

            “Babushka…” he started, nearly speechless, before the matronly old woman laid a warm hand on his arm.

            She smiled at him warmly, but her eyes shone with a cunning light that he’d never seen in them before.  “Don’t worry, dear,” she murmurs, “there’s always a way through those fussy old guards.”

            She waved him off and he went.  Her son Vasily flashed him a knowing look as he perched on the bench he was sitting on, and only made space for him to help.

            “Mama will take care of everything,” he assured under his breath, “why don’t you help me with the last of the pierogis?”

* * *

           The kindly old woman was true to her word.  She’d gotten them out without much of a huff from the guard or anyone else.  Vasily waved them away with another knowing look and winked at him before he headed up to deal with the Housekeeper’s increasingly irate demands for more food. They walked down the old streets, past the river, and down towards the apartments where he was staying with some other young women until he had to leave.

            She bustled him into his apartment, waving him towards the kitchen to set up some tea as they munched on some of the pastries she’d brought back with her.  And then, of course, when he’d finally set the kettle down and moved to rest against the counter, she sprung the question on him.

            “Is that young man of yours coming to pick you up, Katen’ka?”

            He blinked, “Young man?” he parroted back at her, before he realized what she must’ve meant.  He had added a fiancé into his cover, after all.

            “Yes, Vanya wasn’t it?  Oh,” she scoffed delightedly at his shocked face, “you youngsters think just because I’m old I’d miss a few tricks.  I’ve known you might leave us early.”  Although Alfred was sure tricks wasn’t the right word, given that his fake fiancé was named Dmitry, nicknamed Dima, and never in any world had Alfred ever used _Vanya_ to address anyone but Ivan. And what was this about leaving?! “I’ve lived through the Revolutions, dear, I’ve seen it all.  Even young _women_ with ambitious young men who work so they may better themselves.  I knew you were having trouble with the work environment, and our _employer_ in particular – I’ve seen many of the staff leave for many of the same reasons you wish to.”

            “You – you have?” he almost stuttered, and almost broke cover – _almost_ , because he knew the bug behind the stove was still active.

            And _almost_ , because he was positive that the old woman had just fessed up that she’d known he was a spy and had known of other spies who’d done similar things.

            Said old woman smirked at his disbelief, and he felt an odd sense of déjà vu.

            “You’re the proper, polite sort,” Babushka continued on, as if she wasn’t spewing complete bullshit and _hadn’t_ just shaken Alfred’s confidence in his cover completely, “not struggling for money as most of the younger staff are.  They put up with it because they must.  Your young man seemed like the intelligent, ambitious sort.”

            “He is,” he confirmed, dazedly wondering _which_ young man they were talking about.  Katya Alexandrovna had a fiancé, after all.  He was another CIA agent placed to help extract him, but served a dual purpose when they learned about the employer’s… _tendencies_ towards his young female staff. But…Alfred had a feeling that she wasn’t talking about him.  And given she’d somehow known Ivan’s nickname…well, he wouldn’t put it passed her to know most of the actual story.  “But I’m fully capable of earning on my own as well, Babushka.”

            The old woman huffed, and gratefully accepted the tea she’d been watching him make.  “Of course, Katya.  You have your own ambitions.  I knew it wouldn’t be long before you left.  So many incidents – I had wondered what would be too much.  And that young man tonight – why, what loathsome things I’ve been hearing about him all night!  You were shaking, dear, I wasn’t at all surprised.”

            If he wasn’t absolutely sure they were talking about the same thing – the espionage and her having noticed from the beginning and having chosen not to say a word – he would’ve been completely thrown off. They were having two completely different conversations: one that any listening ears could hear (and had a grain of truth in it, anyhow), and another that lingered with only the barest implication of treason.

            They let the conversation settle for a while, the talk with potential treasonous implications for the old woman and the entire oligarch’s household far too heavy a weight on their shoulders.  Tea was finished, hands warmed from the chill of the cold that had descended upon them, and shifting headlights outside finally prompted Alfred to move.

            He had to leave, after all.

            “What gave me away,” he finally asked, as the old woman walked with him to the street corner, just soft enough that the wind couldn’t carry it away as it tumbled through the night.

            The old Russian woman smiled and laughed warmly, “I shouldn’t give up all my secrets, Katen’ka!  My, what might the agencies try to pull when dear old Babushka isn’t standing in the way?”  Her eyes twinkled brightly as she smiled at the young man dressed as a young woman who’d endeared himself to her so much in the month he’d been there.  “But dear, you were curious, genuine, and very, very _bright_.  You cared far more than anyone who’s passed through this house.  And that gave you away.  Perhaps not at once.  You were right to be worried about the Housekeeper, and poor Nadia who reports to the government, snooping about your questions.  But I know everything that goes on in that house.  And I _knew_ there was someone in the house reporting _elsewhere_.  And eventually, that knowledge in your eyes gave you away.”

            There was quiet for a moment as Alfred absorbed that knowledge, before he said, as quiet as the whistling wind, “You did not report me.”

            She scoffed, “And lose such a kind young soul to the nonexistent mercies of the government?  No,” and as she turned to him, there was a genuine warmth in her eyes, “You are good, respectable and bright.  You indulge an old woman of too many years and give her hope.  One day, Katen’ka, this conflict will be over.” She gestured to the air, but it was impossible to misunderstand, “and perhaps one day, I will still be an old woman with too many years, but I will see peace touch the hearts of my countrymen. A wild hope – a hopeless dream, I’m sure.” She sighed.

            “A good one, nonetheless,” he agreed, both nostalgic and wistful for a time before and one that may yet come, where he and his lover were not separated by ideology, dogma, and all that divided their people and their nations but could not part them forever.

            A car – a taxi, really – pulled up in front of them at the street corner.  It was being driven by the other CIA agent in place – the one who occasionally posed as his fiancé to solidify his cover – who’d made use of the distraction the agent at the party was creating to slip notice.  He caught the discrete sign of _all clear_ before he moved fully to the curb.

            And Alfred realized it was time.

            The old woman clasped their hands together, and said, “Off with you then.  And do not forget to write to an old woman!”

            “Of course not, Babushka,” he found himself saying without any pause, and knew it wasn’t an empty promise by any means.  “Do you need a ride home?”

            “Нет, нет,” she waved him off, “I live only a block away.  And I think I will return to your apartment to finish off that cup of tea, Katen’ka, before I venture back into the cold.  It will do my old bones some good.  Safe travels, my dear.”  Her smile was warm and mischievous, and he couldn’t help returning it effortlessly.

            “Safe travels, Babushka,” he whispered in return, moving to open the car door.  He turned to wave goodbye, before sliding into the backseat of the taxi.

            “You alright, Miss?” the agent/cab-driver asked him. He nodded politely.

            “Yes, thank you,” he cleared his throat and almost smiled as the agent passed back a napkin box at the sound of the sniffles.

            He almost _did_ smile when he detached the one-way plane ticket to Paris from the bottom of the tissue box.  Pulling his via – under the name of Katerina Alexandrovna Vasilieva – like a tissue from the box’s opening, he cleared his throat.

            “To the airport, please,” he said.  The agent tipped his hat to him with a side smirk and kicked the parked car into gear.

            “Of course, Miss.”

            _To the airport_ , his mind sighed wearily, _then to Paris_.  _Meeting with the contact who had the rest of his documents.  A quick change of clothes.  To the ferry from Calais.  A stop in London, on to Toronto.  And a quick drive down the border, and home at last._

            And hopefully, no Ivan chasing him home.

            (Although, really, he wouldn’t object too much if he did.)

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is some extra stuff I cut from the end of the story! Tell me what you think!

           Not even half an hour after the taxi had departed from the lonely street corner, there was a knocking on Katya’s door.  The old woman sighed, setting down her re-heated cup of tea, and moving to answer the door.  She was well aware that it wasn’t any of the three other young women who lived in Katya’s small single-roomed apartment.  They were all off working tonight, she knew, which was why she wasn’t at all surprised when she opened the door.

            The young man she opened the door for, on the other hand, was most certainly surprised by her presence.

            He was tall, broad-shouldered and well-built with a handsome face and paler skin than most of her countrymen.  His eyes gleamed like soft, rich violets in the darkness of the night around them.  And, hmm, how odd - he felt familiar to her, somehow.  Like he was someone she’d known all her life, yet she was sure she’d never met him before.

            [ _In the back of her mind, an old memory arises.  It’s vague and smudged around the edges; all the signs of a memory from long ago, barely recognizable at all.  Yet it is unbelievably familiar, and undeniably welcome; as if she had gone through one of the older trunks from her childhood and found a worn and well used blanket that she knew in her heart, but had no recollection of._

_She had been young, a toddling thing perhaps, no older than five years old. She had been sitting on her father’s big, broad shoulders, wrapping small arms around his forehead as she curled further around him for warmth.  Her mother’s hand rested warm on her thigh - likely the only reason she could remember its presence - and her brother was tangled into their father’s side, his head tapping against her little boots.  They had been watching a grand Imperial parade, and the Czar had been there.  His whole family had come out, all the princesses in their finery, and even the little Czarevich swaddled in the cradle of his mother’s arms.  But there had been another standing near them, dressed just as finely, yet somehow, oddly distinct.  His hair was pale, like moonlight spun silver, with eyes the color of fresh violets the child had never seen in her life.  And yet...and yet…_

_Vivid eyes connected with innocent ones looking on, and suddenly, the young child who’d never known anything other than her family and her happy little life, taken care of as well as her family could afford, felt a weight come over her. A sense of age weighed her down, pressing and heavy, but not malicious or mal intended.  It was simply...age.  Time.  A maturity that had yet to come to her._

_The eyes left her and suddenly she’d felt bereft.  She’d started bawling, startling both her parents and the nearby crowd around her, unable to handle the intensity of the emotions she’d just overcome.  By the next day, the memory of weighty, aged violet eyes would flee from her.  But it was always there, in the back of her mind. Waiting._ ]

            He felt _old_ , she realized.  And she herself was pushing her seventies, having been a young woman during the Revolutions.  But, she supposed, that was neither here, nor there.  There was a reason she’d lingered to speak with the KGB agent who Vasily had mentioned he’d seen watching them leave.  And it was not entirely that she was all too curious as to how he and Katya - whom she knew very well was neither named Katya, nor a woman at all - knew each other so well that the younger of the pair had held no hesitation when the old woman had called the elder “her young man.”

            She huffed a laugh, noticing the surprise still in his eyes, “You’ve missed her,” she said knowingly, “your young _lady_.  I’m afraid she’s gone off.”

            “Pardon me?” the man said, surprise brightening his eyes alongside the dawning realization.  She might not have noticed it, had she not had practice reading Katya’s odd expressiveness.

            “My son works at the manor just as I do,” she began, soft and considering, “and he has a soft spot for the younger women who work there.  He tries his best to keep an eye out for them, to make sure they stay safe. Especially given that some of the elder staff tend to have wandering hands to go with their wandering eyes. So, he noticed when you started paying her undue attention.” Her face hardens at that. 

            She’d been working in this particular oligarch’s house for several decades now, since she her children had been young and growing. And in all that time, she’d comforted young women by the dozens, consoling them and helping them come to terms with the kind of things men could do.  She’d seen so many women come through the house, leaving as quickly as they came because they could not or would not take the constant abuse.  In many ways, that was how she’d known Katya was a spy.  She had watched the young maid steel himself against the harassment, but did nothing to prevent it.  Yet, he had gone out of his way to intervene the moment he knew it was happening to others. Katya had taken on cleaning the study, made sure to accompany other young women home from work, and often times had actually put a vicious halt to any attempts at assaulting the young women he’d taken under his protection whenever he could do so without breaking cover.

            It had warmed the old woman’s heart as much as it had wizened her mind.

            “I do not mean her any harm,” the man assures her, even as his eyes darken at the overt implications she’s revealed to him.  It was an odd feeling, she noted, that he was reassuring her.  She had the strangest feeling that he did not do so often.  “I was concerned for her.  I’m something of an old friend – I knew her for quite some time, a while ago.”

            All true, the old woman could tell, but perhaps not the way she’d understood it.  “Well,” she said eventually, “she’s already taken off.  Heading home now, I believe.”

            The man’s violet eyes sharpen, catching the unspoken realization.

            _I knew he was a spy.  I let him go, anyways_.

            “I wanted to have a word with you, young man,” she said, “Katen’ka might not have been a part of our household for very long, but she will be a very missed addition.  She put herself through a lot of trouble needlessly for the other girls in the house.  I just wanted to make it clear.”

            The man’s eyes were like chips of ice, and when he smiled, she almost shivered.  Whoever was the intended recipient of that smile had better have their will updated. There was no mercy to be found in that bleak, glass-sharp expression.  They lighten as they focus back on her, “Thank you for informing me,” he said, and there is something warmer in his tone.  She almost smiles.  “It is late,” he continues, “and the weather will get worse tonight.  If I may offer you a ride to your home?”

            She studied him critically before she nodded, “Yes, I do think so,” she looks at him, considering again, before she says, “You will be good for her,” in that old approving tone that all grandmothers master in front of their children.  And then she relishes in the blink of shock he graces her with.

            She has a feeling that she will be one of the rare few who ever see it.

**Two Months Later**

            The news of the oligarch’s rather dramatic death made its way to the CIA within hours from the moment the Russian police finally identified him.  Alfred was notified at the same time, having been in a meeting with the department superiors discussing their options for handling said oligarch when the news broke. It had been a horrific death – that much they’d known for a while – and clearly the evidence that someone had disliked him enough to hold a grudge.  The news of the explosive incident which had resulted in the man’s passing had been circulating for almost a week before any headway had been made in identifying whom it had been that had fallen victim.

            Alfred would never admit to it in front of his people, but he was more than relieved that someone in Russia had seen the need to organize the man’s unexpected accident.  While he had been recruited to organize an extraction for the oligarch onto US soil, he also knew that had the oligarch given his bosses what they’d wanted, he would’ve gotten off scot free.  And after working in the man’s mansion – a victim and a witness to the bastard’s lecherous gaze, wandering hands, and inability to understand the word _no_ – that wasn’t something he could let go.

            Hell, if the CIA had allowed the bastard to get off, there was every chance Alfred would’ve organized his own _accident_ for the man.  No matter how much trouble it put him into, if he was careless enough to get caught.

            But it wasn’t until he’d gotten to the next nation meeting nearly a month afterwards that he started to get suspicious that the accident hadn’t been a result of just Russia’s  _government_.

            See, Russia had this _tell_.  It was an odd kind of thing that America was only aware of because of the close and personal relationship they both shared – both as lovers and as one half of the two world powers.  And more to the point, Ivan’s tell was even more obvious to Alfred.  The tell was as such: Russia disliked talking about those he had to disappear, or those who’d turned traitor and necessitated disappearing. He disliked it when his bosses talked negatively about them, and he disliked when others brought them up. Sometimes he would glower at them until they shut up – which was rather effective given what his glower looked like – and other times, he’d just plain cut them off.

            The difference this time?  Russia not only didn’t stop them from talking about the oligarch’s death, he looked _satisfied_ whenever someone brought up the horrific incident.

            The thing is, that even though Alfred’s the only one who knows of the _tell_ , he’s certainly not the only one who notices Russia’s blatant pleasure with the oligarch’s violent end.  And it’s making everyone present far more curious about the incident than anyone needs to be.  So, Alfred gives in to his curiosity and corners Ivan once the meeting is over, and demands to know why exactly he’s so pleased with the death of one of his oligarchs when the man had lost some very important documents in the process.

            He’d never _dreamed_ of the reaction he got.

            He’s yanked close again, pressed against the wall much like he had been that chilly night in Moscow when he’d been caught spying in a dress.  Ivan’s fingers curl tightly around his hip and another hand curls into his hair, and it isn’t a longshot to say there was no possible way to understate how furious Ivan was at that moment.  Not with the way the other nation was shaking with a wave of fury that was only barely contained.

            What had the bastard done?  The answer was in every line of the snarl Ivan favored him with.

            “He touched you.”

            _That_ was when Alfred remembered he’d had a very good reason for hoping Ivan would never ever find out what had happened under that particular oligarch’s roof.

            Whoops.

**Author's Note:**

> Right. So. This turned into a fucking monster. It is TEN THOUSAND WORDS LONG. WHAT THE FUCK. I thought it would hit, at max, five thousand words. And I had to cut some of the stuff that went into this thing. Also, I'm pretty sure some of the words blended together at some point, so please be kind to me. I'm a very sleep deprived human being right now.  
> Also, a huge thank you to Usagi323 who helped me a lot with the dialogue in one particular scene that just kept frustrating the hell out of me. And to vyudali for working with me for the Big Bang Project!!! This would not be complete without y'all!!!
> 
> I hope you've all had a Happy Halloween, and a wonderful first of November! Please read, enjoy, and leave a review!!!


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